KILLER OF THE GYPSY MOON AND THE PRICE OF GREED

It all starts with oil, by which I mean the two cultural events I watched this past weekend, one sporting, the other cinematic.

The Saudis with their abundant oil wealth staged 'The Battle Of The Baddest' and the fact they built a stadium in just 90 days especially for the crossover fight between the WBC Heavyweight boxing champion Tyson Fury and MMA World Champion Francis Ngannou tells you all you need to know about the insanity of the occasion that headlined the start of the 2023 Riyadh Season, a festival of sport that lasts for several months in Saudi Arabia.

For all the celebrities and sporting icons who turned up for the massively hyped fight there was a distinct lack of atmosphere in Boulevard Hall, the kind you would be guaranteed by British fight fans in Wembley or the 02 Arena in London. There seemed a kind of alien planet vibe to the overall presentation which is perhaps indicative of the excessive wealth involved, as if everything that appears (apart from the boxers themselves) at the event are nothing more than holograms.

When the 'Gypsy King' arrived before the crowd of sheikhs and rappers he appeared to get momentarily lost on his way to the ring whereas in contrast Ngannou could not have looked more composed and relaxed waiting patiently for Fury to arrive in the squared circle. It seemed to be a perfect metaphor for the inner state of Fury's mind, a kind of culture-less no man's land where the unique narrative and legacy of his boxing story was about to become increasingly in danger of jeopardy. It's what is often known as the 'Apollo Creed' effect - the moment where you become a parody of your own legend. Called out by the Ukrainian heavyweight champion, Oleksandr Usyk for being a 'greedy belly', there was a sense on Saturday night that Fury, like Midas, had been adorned with too many riches or as if he had gorged on too much food like Bacchus with his protruding love handles.

Billed by many critics as a one sided freak show/novelty fight in his favour, one wonders if Fury himself had begun to believe them and as a consequence ended up underestimating his opponent from Cameroon. Ngannou, trained in the art of a completely different fight discipline (Mixed Martial Arts) to boxing, was not expected to cause any real concern for the lineal boxing heavyweight who repeatedly claims there is 'not a man born from his mother' yet ready to defeat him in the ring.

Well, it seems the Gods had a different script for Fury this night and so in round 3 he was felled like a giant tree by Ngannou and humbled before the entire watching world as all his pre fight boasts had now become 'high precision ghosts'. For the rest of the fight the man from Morecambe looked haunted, as if a combination of old Father Time and 0ld Mother Hubris had conspired to teach him a lesson in humility so he could be reminded of how far he yet has to go to secure sporting immortality.

But no amount of hubris will ever teach his father, John, the lesson. He is beyond teaching because he believes whatever madness leaves his tongue is gospel. In his delusion he will only ever blame everyone else but his son for the near-defeat he suffered on Saturday night. Living his broken fighter’s dream vicariously through Tyson has all the makings of a great melodrama and we're about to enter the third act of either a heroic redemption or an unravelling tragedy.

Watching members of the Osage Nation get murdered for their oil and their money in 'Killers Of The Flower Moon' (2023), I wondered if director, Martin Scorsese, was atoning with his white catholic guilt for enjoying all those westerns from the last century where Indians were often the existential threat not the other way around.

The towering patriarchal figure of rancher William 'King' Hale (Robert DeNiro) has a similar omnipresence as John Fury, forever suggesting devilish ideas for his simpleton nephew, Ernest Burkhart (Leonardo DiCaprio) to carry out.

If there were Oscars given for the best supporting teeth then DiCaprio would surely win every time he plays a villain. In Tarantino's 'Django Unchained' they were discoloured to resemble the wet soggy bits of chewed up cigars and in 'Killers Of The Flower Moon' they look like ill fitting blank scrabble pieces jammed into the maxillary of his mouth and deployed often to remind us not to get too sympathetic to the slow witted Ernest. Between the bad teeth and the constant jutting of his chin, it all looks like a school play performance which fails to convince and brought to mind 'Simple Jack' in Ben Stiller's 'Tropic Thunder' (2008).

DeNiro channels his recent Trump derangement syndrome into a role that fits him almost perfectly like a glove. Perhaps playing assholes is where he really is most comfortable whether it be Jake La Motta, Max Cady or 'King' Hale as the veteran actor seems to draw upon toxic masculinity as if its' inherent within his own soul like some sort of never-ending life force.

Ultimately, I was surprised at how a film that deals with such a dark chapter of history was surprisingly one tone in its surface level of storytelling considering it was stretched across a three and a half hour running time. Scorsese very much went for a 'show and tell' approach which was ham fistedly expositional and lacking in any great mystery or subtext. I can see what he was aiming for which was to sneak in his love of 1950s Western melodramas such as 'East Of Eden' (1955), 'Giant' (1956) and 'Home From The Hill' (1960) and it might have worked if he hadn't approached his characters in such a pantomime way. I was hoping for more nuance but got heavy handed TV movie vibes throughout. A cack handed cameo from the director himself in a radio play reconstruction of events a la Woody Allen's 'Radio Days' in a final scene felt like a steal from Spielberg's more effective cameo standing at the grave of Oskar Schindler for his 1993 masterpiece 'Schindler's List'.

On a more positive note I should say that Lily Gladstone's performance as Mollie Kyle was effortless and often provided a hint of greater mysteries that the rest of the film failed to capitalise on. Robbie Robertson's score was similarly masterful in its understatement, creating a constant tension and menace with its minimalist fusion of blues and Native American drums and flutes.

In conclusion, both events were cautionary tales about the price of greed.

For Fury, his legacy was nearly obliterated by his inability to see the illusion of his own hype, grossly inflated by the ridiculous piles of money the Saudis paid him. He was, to quote Donda West, like "the giant' who 'looks in the mirror and sees nothing. Everybody else sees the giant,” she goes on to explain. “Stay on the ground, and you can be in the air all at the same time. That’s what I think it means when they say that the giant looks in the mirror and sees nothing. Everybody else sees the giant.”

For Burkhart it's not the giant he fails to see but the devil in the eyes of his Uncle Hale who makes him dance to his killer's tune until redemption is well beyond his grasp.

Cautionary tales aplenty for us all before Halloween arrives tomorrow.